There, behind sunlight,
is the long pressure
of a child's love. Becoming mute

with the child's love. Long influence of stars touched
by the hand wrapped, asleep,
in the newly laundered sheets. Touched

to widths of butterscotch
stretched. Split-apart as the voices, rain thickening,
against one another forever, if glass. Forever
if resting against one another. Forever

if holding the end of a year like this: the nights
lengthening. I check: each child
is alive in his sleep. You are also asleep, love,

at the end of the yarn
you are weaving around the edge of a pink paper heart
fattening—quieter, now. Forever, if quieter, now.